My restless mind is only half on holidays.
I half mourn quietly for an old lady in Schmoebs who died as old ladies do everywhere, but not as young. For a kid there who I know will break my heart by growing up as all kids do everywhere, but not as fast.
I only half believe I’m moving to the city. I’m half nervous, half excited about unrushed family time, frequent friends, dates, dancing, wearing impractical fabrics and culturally insensitive clothing.
I make half plans to be an artist, a writer, a performer.
I half write stories about cute boys I sit next to on planes or awkward campfires with impractical Frenchmen or Russell and his revolution.
I half wonder what happened to me way out west? Who have I become after five years in the desert? How am I going to answer well-meaning city hipsters who ask me what I think about ‘indigenous issues?’ What will I wear to these conversations and will my accent sound too broad?
All those things I half saw and half felt, do they mean anything?
“There are hippy lefty socialist douchebags and there are conservative redneck douchebags. I never really stuck my neck out. I tried to be a sponge, just soaking it all up. I tried to just get on with it. Just do something. Sometimes too much thinking makes it impossible to act.”
That’s from my blog in 2009, in Alice Springs.
Perhaps now I’m leaving the desert it is finally time to think.